And yet… I write this down. Which means some part of me still wants to be heard. Some part still hopes that by speaking the unspeakable wish, I might loosen its grip.
Since you asked to for that title, here is an original short prose piece written as if for a PDF document or a handwritten note: Tôi Ước Mình Chưa Từng Được Sinh Ra (I Wish I Had Never Been Born)
Every morning, I wake into a debt I did not sign for. The debt of joy. The debt of gratitude. The debt of trying —because others tried for me. My mother’s labor. My father’s silence. My ancestors’ ghosts, watching from the altar, expecting me to continue their unfinished hope. Toi uoc Minh Chua Tung duoc Sinh Ra Pdf
But what if I am tired? What if this gift called life feels like a stone tied to my neck? They say: "You are lucky to be born." But luck is a lottery. And some tickets are just… pain.
And that small thread—between your eyes and my ink—is the only birth I can still believe in. And yet… I write this down
I was not asked. No one handed me a contract before the first cell split, before the first breath burned my lungs. I arrived like a guest at a party I never RSVP'd to, handed a name, a language, a country, a wound.
I wish I had never been born. Not to die—death is still a something . I mean never to have existed at all. No shadow. No footprint. No name whispered at a funeral. Just the great, merciful blankness before the first cry. Since you asked to for that title, here
This is a heavy, emotional theme—often explored in existential literature, poetry, or personal essays about depression, regret, or philosophical despair (similar to passages in Ecclesiastes or works by Emil Cioran).
So I sit here, between the PDF page and the pale light of morning, and I do not erase these words. Not because I have found an answer. But because somewhere, someone else will read this and think: "Oh. It’s not just me."